Insecta
by AZombieWrites
Summary: An insect with an insatiable appetite for human flesh has found a home on Seaview. As the death count rises, Captain Crane and Admiral Nelson struggle to find a way to stop it from taking more lives.


**Main Characters:** Captain Lee Crane, Admiral Nelson and Chief Sharkey.

 **Disclaimers:** Based on the characters created by Irwin Allen.

 **Challenge:** Written for The Spook_Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2017 on Dreamwidth.

 **Prompt:** Insect

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The captain of Seaview ran toward the missile room, his body agile within the cramped passageways, lungs already struggling for the next breath. The fear cramping his chest did nothing to help, emotions fighting against common sense.

This couldn't be happening . . . the last two days a nightmare. How can one small insect cause so much trouble, so much damage, the insect already responsible for the deaths of four crewmen, their last moments so violent, their pain excruciating and there had been nothing Crane could do to save them; to protect his crew.

So small, the insect was hard to find, unseen until it attacked. Quick, precise movements, devouring its victim, death making an ugly claim. Crane didn't believe he was capable of witnessing another death, not one so violent but he had no choice. He was the captain of Seaview, the crew looked to him for answers; he didn't have any.

Their limited choice of insecticide hadn't worked. The few insect traps they had placed remained empty, useless. A thorough search of the boat, from one end to the other, brought no results. They couldn't locate the threat, an insect the width and length of Crane's thumb too difficult to find.

The only choice left was to sail to the nearest safe port, still hours away, even at full flank. The idea not properly thought out, Crane desperate to save the remaining men on Seaview. His only thought, the only reasonable thing left to do was to starve the creature out of hiding; without a food source, it was possible it would leave the ship. If not, it would at least give Nelson more time to create a poison that would kill the insect.

Until they reached port, his crew was still at risk and for now, Crane felt helpless, afraid, the fear churning his stomach and for the first time in his captaincy of Seaview, Lee Crane doubted his ability to save his crew.

Over the years, they had dealt with so many things others would conceive as unbelievable but it had happened: sea creatures, aliens, doppelgangers, mind control and the evil humanity was so capable of committing. Everything else, he could rationalise, put in perspective . . . he had remained sane, his mind intact but this . . .

This was different. Different from everything he'd dealt with before.

If this didn't change him, affect him in a negative way, nothing will. Knew it was too late, denial a destructive emotion; it had already changed him, his confidence waning, his ability to lead disrupted. He could still see the bodies of the dead crewmembers, the aftermath just as bad. Attempts to clean up the blood and brain matter futile. He'd asked for volunteers, no one up to the task of scrubbing the remains of a friend off the floor. Crane couldn't blame his crew for their hesitation, it was only when he had tried to do it himself that others came forward, taking him away from the nauseating task but even they could only manage so much before turning away, stomachs heaving . . .

Up ahead, a man started screaming, voice quickly becoming hoarse, the pain obvious to anyone who could hear him and Crane was certain the entire boat could hear the crewmember, his screams so loud, an undercurrent of violent tones. The man was suffering but Crane knew it would be over soon . . . too soon, no hope to save the man's life. Unable to save the others, how could he even think he could save this man.

Heart clenching with emotion, Crane stumbled through an open hatchway, feet suddenly clumsy, the hindrance slowing him down, exhaustion finally beginning to take a toll, the fatigue making an abrupt appearance. The screaming an unwelcome motive, Crane pushed himself further forward, limbs heavier than they were only moments earlier. There was no time to dwell on his weakness, his body losing the ability to function at its normal efficiency. He had to ignore his own needs and focus on the needs of his crew; not only his job but a part of his personality . . . the crew came first.

Always.

When he reached the missile room, the screams were already tapering off, an indication that he was too late, only arriving in time to view the remaining moments of the man's life. He stepped through the hatchway, the scene before him halting his momentum. Feeling as though his heart had stopped, Crane stood still, gaze staring at the crewmember withering on the floor.

Recognition made, the colour draining from Crane's olive skin tone. Mason, new to Seaview, only a member of the crew for a month. He was young, too young but Crane and Admiral Nelson had accepted his application to join Seaview on the recommendation of Admiral Starke. An obvious mistake, Starke adamant with his endorsement of Mason's abilities, deciding Mason would go far. The man wasn't wrong, Mason very capable but he was still too young and now . . . his life was draining away, his skin ripped apart . . . an insect devouring flesh, stimulating its appetite before moving onto its intended destination; the brain.

Mason's hands grappled with the back of his neck, the base of his skull, fingers digging into open flesh, tearing and ripping, the blood coating his hands, his neck, clothing, shoulders of his blue uniform turning dark. Pain controlled Mason's movements, his actions causing more damage.

Crane was aware of what Mason was trying to achieve, the young man's actions a natural reflex; instincts trying to remove the thing doing everything it could to kill him. Fingers were searching for the insect but it was of little use, the small hole created by the animal in the base of Mason's skull too small for Mason's fingers to penetrate.

Struggles beginning to slow, Mason's hands fell away, smacking onto the floor of the missile room. Body twitching, blood pooled around his head, spreading outward; death was close . . . too close. Nothing anyone could do to stop its approach.

Nausea turning his stomach, Crane searched the room, gaze finding the two men who stood by watching, just as helpless as Crane to stop what was happening. Chief Sharkey and Kowalski, expressions of shock, of despair, riddled their features; nothing they could do. Nothing Crane could do to help Mason.

There was one thing . . .

One thing Crane could do. It wouldn't stop Mason's death, but if he could help emotionally. As the world seemed to close around them, shutting everything and everyone out, Crane moved forward, steps awkward, limbs heavy. A small part of him wanted to run; he didn't want to watch this, didn't want to be a part of it . . . not again. Ignoring the small voice nagging at the back of his mind, he knelt down next to Mason, the young man's eyes wide with fear, pain dilating his pupils. It was just the two of them, a connection made as Mason stared back at Crane.

Crane gripped a bloody hand, Mason's grip surprisingly strong.

"I don't want to die," said Mason, his words soft, tone full of fear and regret.

There was very little Crane could say. He didn't want to lie, didn't want to give the kid false hope. He knew words wouldn't be enough but they were all he had. Keeping his expression calm, hiding the fear clenching his chest, the tremor in his limbs, Crane said, "I'm sorry, Jeff."

A sob erupted from Mason, tears forming in his eyes. He was too young. Young enough to believe he was invincible, youth convincing him he wouldn't be the one to die. Mason's body shuddered, his lungs grasping for the next breath. Ignoring the threat, the insect very capable of moving from one victim to another, Crane placed the palm of his right hand against the side of Mason's face, long fingers embracing the young man's cheek. It was all he could do; provide company in the last moments before death. Mason wouldn't die thinking he was alone; he needed someone with him.

Crane could feel the grip loosen. Mouth open, a silent scream, Mason's body jerked, the spasm flowing through his body, the heels of his shoes drumming a beat on the floor. A sudden urge, Crane wanted to turn Mason onto his side, reveal the wound at the back of Mason's head. He wanted to use his fingers, pry open the flesh, the bone at the base of the young man's skull. He wanted to insert his fingers, search for the insect and drag it out, pull it and its gnashing teeth away from the filtering life before him. Knew it would be of no use, the insect now too deep . . . the bone a barrier. He couldn't do it for the same reasons Mason hadn't been able too, the insect too small, mode of entry too small.

It had been an emotional response, nothing more, irrationality thinking it could do the impossible.

Letting out a last breath, his lungs no longer able to take another, Mason died. Crane waited, hoping, silently urging Mason to take another breath but he didn't. Death was certain. Aware of the men behind him, Crane refused to move, staying with the body, unwilling to let go of Mason's hand. Closed his eyes at the threat of tears. Five crewmembers now dead and he had been unable to save them.

Minutes passed. Mason's hand already cold, the fingers lax, Crane strengthened his hold. An awkward silence filled the room. Crane understood his actions, his show of emotions were making the other two men uncomfortable; they were unaccustomed to seeing him vulnerable. He didn't care . . . couldn't care about their thoughts, their conclusions; this _had_ changed him, for the worse, leading him to an inevitable conclusion.

No longer emotionally stable, Lee Crane knew with certainty he would no longer be able to command Seaview with the same confidence and authority as he had for the previous four years. His career was about to conclude. The responsibility . . . the deaths . . . he didn't want to do it anymore. Didn't want to be responsible for the safety of another person, for the safety of one hundred and twenty four men. He couldn't watch any more men die, men under his command.

Silence interrupted, Crane frowned. He could hear a noise, unfamiliar but there was no doubt as to where it was coming from. Mason. His attention gained, the sound turned his stomach. Swallowing the bile filling his throat, his mouth, Craned leaned forward, closer to the body and held his breath. A sucking noise, something scraping, burrowing through soft, moist flesh . . .

He could hear the insect as it fed on Mason's brain.

He knew that sound would assault his dreams and the rest of his life.

Mind drifting, his thoughts were negative and dark; thoughts he couldn't decipher, couldn't explain. Shadows moved against the edges of his sanity. Crane closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it in his lungs. Is this what it felt like to lose your mind? He felt dizzy, body shifting until he was sitting on the floor. Let the air out of his lungs.

The sound coming from the inside of Mason's skull increased in intensity. The sound violent, bloody. A decision made, Crane would never eat meat again. The noise came to a sudden halt . . .

"Skipper?" said Sharkey, his voice full of emotion, stepped forward, his right hand hovering over Crane's shoulder ready to pull him out of harm's way. "You need to step away, sir. That thing's going to come out any second now."

Crane snapped. The fear and hopelessness, the torment crushing his soul turned to anger. Concentration lapsing, he turned his upper body to face the chief, the man standing beside him. "Don't you think I know that?"

Sharkey's face softened with understanding. "I know you do, sir, better than any of us but if that thing attacks you, well, sir, I don't think I could stand it."

A deep breath, a nod of acceptance, common sense returning, Crane released Mason's hand, stood up and moved away, creating distance. Knowledge gained through experience, Crane knew space wasn't a safety net, the insect too quick. Hunger would drive it toward the next source of food. A satisfied appetite would cause it to run, to seek out a safe environment, a repetitive action.

The only thing that slowed it down was human flesh. Evolution had made it smart, adjusting its method of attack. Used height to its advantage, falling from above, like a tick falling from a tree. How it found its prey, Crane didn't know: sight, smell or heat, he couldn't be sure. It fell, landing on the back of the neck, immediate penetration, it didn't have far to go, sharp teeth broke through flesh as if it was paper, burrowing through bone with ease and once it was inside the skull . . . nothing could be done.

"Do you think we could catch it, sir," said Kowalski, following Crane and Sharkey as they moved away from Mason. "If we wore gloves?"

Cahill, the insect's second victim, was the exception, a different mode of attack. Sighting the insect as it sat dormant on one of the higher bunks in the crew's quarters, Cahill had taken it upon himself to act, no blame placed, anyone else would have done the same thing . . . at the time. Now, two days later, fear kept everyone at bay. Prepared with a thick pair of gloves, he had picked up the insect; possible it had been a trap, no one was certain.

The insect attacked, quickly tearing through the thick material of the glove before biting into flesh, moving with less speed toward the brain, enjoying the taste . . . taking its time. Only Henderson there to witness the event, both men distracted, scared into submission, unsure what to do. It wasn't until Cahill started screaming, that Henderson acted, calling for help, Crane arriving moments after Cahill's death, too late do anything. Faster reflexes may have saved Cahill's life.

No one's fault really. How anyone could lay blame against a man's reactions during an event so violent? No one knew how they would react during similar circumstances. Fear was a strong motivator; it either coerced a man into an act of bravery or sent him into an emotional, downward spiral driven by panic, limbs frozen and unable to act. Crane had seen it too many times in his career, still unsure about how he would react until something went wrong.

Now afraid the fear would control his actions in an unfamiliar way, standing still, doing nothing while another man died.

Isn't that what he'd just done? Become a bystander, doing nothing to stop Mason from dying. Surely, he could have done something . . . Tried to remind himself there had been nothing he could do, but the thought was empty, lacking encouragement; a small voice at the back of his mind telling him he had failed . . . again. Emotions grew, becoming painful, a tight clamp around his chest. His heart pounded against his ribcage, pushing the pain up into his throat, making it difficult to breathe. A confusing rollercoaster of emotions ran through him, his body trembling. Common sense fled once more, no longer in control of his own thoughts, his words . . . spoke before he could stop himself.

"Gloves didn't help Cahill. It ate through them. An appetiser before the main course."

It didn't help, only made things worse.

Kowalski straightened his shoulders, his own fear obvious in his short, stuttered breaths. "This isn't a joke, sir."

"No, it isn't," said Crane. In a sign of frustration, he raised his right hand, running his fingers back and forth through his hair, stopping only when they rested against the back of his neck. A shiver ran the length of his spine. Ignoring the emotion, he said, "What else can I do? I couldn't save them. I couldn't save Mason. I wouldn't be able to save you. So tell me, Kowalski, what else can I do?"

"There isn't anything else you can do, sir."

"Kowalski's right, skipper," said Sharkey. "There's nothing you can do. You can't blame yourself for what's happened."

He did blame himself. He was the captain, the crew of Seaview his responsibility. Every death under his command took a little piece of his soul, injured a part of the man he had become. He was always able to heal, to move on. Life and death decisions were a part of the job, he had accepted that a long time ago, wouldn't be able to command a boat if he hadn't.

This time . . . this situation . . . the deaths of five members of his crew had changed him, no longer the man he once was. It was the way they had died, violent, their expressions full of fear. It was the look of desperation in their eyes, begging their captain to do something, to save them.

The trail of tiny, bloody footprints left behind as the killer fled the scene . . . a reminder of how small the creature was . . . of how inadequate Crane had become.

Felt the blame, the guilt, as though he had put a gun to their heads and pulled the trigger. It was the feeling of incompetence that ate away at him, left him feeling nothing but despair. Knew he wouldn't heal this time, he wouldn't accept the deaths as a part of the job. He was ready to give up, to hand command over to someone who didn't feel the deaths as deeply as he did.

His thoughts became repetitive . . . he couldn't do this anymore. Could no longer command Seaview.

Clenched his fists by his side, tried to calm his mind, his body . . . he couldn't stop shaking. He felt weak. A lack of sleep, of nutrition continuing to take a toll on him. Reminded of the weight of exhaustion in his limbs. He'd given up on trying to sleep, the screams, images of violence too disruptive, keeping him awake. Given up on a decent meal, the smell of blood, the sight of brain matter turning his stomach, throat still painful after the last bout of nausea, stomach acid burning his insides. He felt sick now, nothing in his stomach, only the bile in his throat.

His only consolation . . . in a matter of hours, it would all end. With Seaview docked in a safe port, he could leave the boat and the crew. Leave the destruction of the insect in Nelson's capable hands. It would no longer be his responsibility. A sudden feeling of selfishness; aware Nelson felt very much the same way: guilt, fear, hopelessness. Two men cut from the same cloth, their emotions regarding the situation too similar.

"Skipper!"

Recognising the tone of Sharkey's voice, Crane turned to look toward Mason's body. There it was. The cause of too many deaths. Finished with its meal, the insect escaped, finding passage to freedom, crawling out of Mason's right ear, a trail of blood left behind. Too similar to a giant water bug, its body black, it paused, as though making a decision.

Without thinking, Crane stepped toward it, wanting to do something, anything to stop it from escaping. Stop it searching for its next meal. He wanted to crush it under foot, grind it into nothing but he would be too slow and if the insect was still hungry . . .

Sharkey snapped his arm forward, catching Crane's shoulder and pulling him back. Bravery commended, the chief stepped in front of Crane, a protective barrier. It wasn't necessary, protection not needed. The insect's appetite satisfied, it scurried away, moving with too much speed toward the hatchway. Long, spindly legs scratched against the metal surface as it began to climb, disappearing over the edge of the doorway before Crane could take another breath, so quick was its movements. Another reason they couldn't catch it; the thing was too fast.

"Skipper, you best go report to the admiral," said Sharkey, turning to face Crane, his gaze shifting, no direct eye contact given. "We'll take care of Mason, sir. There's no need for you to see . . ."

Crane could only guess why the chief refused to look directly at him: guilt, anger, defiance, blame . . . too much emotion in his damp, green eyes. Crane nodded in acceptance and turned away. Shoulders slumped in defeat he walked slowly toward the open hatchway. Stepping over the edge, he paused and looked back over his shoulder at Mason. A final image, a snapshot of death that would linger with Crane until his last breath. Turned back to the passageway and walked away.

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A muted silence filled the control room, every man occupied with thoughts of impending death, their bodies tense with unwelcomed expectation; it could happen to any of them . . . at any moment. Crane ignored the morose moods, his own thoughts similar to the men around him, the only difference; more concerned he would lose the life of another crewmember than his own, his life expendable. It was more than a duty; it was an honour to give his life protecting his crew . . . to give his life protecting civilians.

He wanted to assure them it would be okay, a need to comfort. It would take a lie, something he still couldn't do. A lie would break their trust in him, their faith, Crane not sure they still trusted their captain but he couldn't take the risk. They needed guidance, a leader they could and would follow; a lie, if discovered would destroy everything he'd worked for . . . everything he had gained over the last four years. A lack of trust could cost more lives not only now but in the future . . . if he was still in command of Seaview after this situation ended; a successful or failed mission will determine his future. His heart wasn't in it, no longer wanting to lead but watching these men . . . good men . . . brave men, Crane was willing to wait a few days before he made a final decision on the rest of his life.

Crane moved past the periscope island, his body lethargic, exhaustion filling his limbs. He paused at the navigation table, leant forward, elbows finding a place to rest on the edge of the table, gaze drifting over the navigation map and the calculations Chip had made earlier. Came to a quick conclusion; still too long before they reached port, too much time left for the insect to create more death, to gorge itself on living flesh.

He wanted to laugh, reminded so much of the horror movie Patterson had bragged about seeing the previous weekend. The dead rising and eating . . . he felt sick, everything too real. This wasn't a movie. His despondent mood fell, a dramatic fall. Stood up straight, leaning his left hip against the table, raised his right hand and massaged his forehead, fingers moving back and forth; another sign of frustration, inability to do nothing more than wait filled him with anger and desperation.

"Lee?"

Admiral Nelson.

Dropping his hand, Crane released a soft sigh and looked toward Nelson. The Admiral stood in the observation nose of Seaview, hands in his pockets, his back to the large view ports . . . waiting. The question obvious in his features demanded an answer, an explanation. Nelson wanted to know who had died.

Frustrated and angry, his tone sharp, the words escaped before Crane could stop them. "You didn't come to the missile room, Admiral. If you'd been there . . ."

When Nelson lowered his head, when he turned away to face the viewport, Crane tried to feel guilty but couldn't manage it. Yes, he felt guilty for the situation at hand . . . for the deaths of his crew but he couldn't find the energy to feel remorse for words meant to hurt. Knew he would regret it later, apologise to Nelson, express the reason behind his emotional reaction. Crane wanted to blame someone else, let someone else shoulder the responsibility, if only for a moment.

The moment passed, Crane returning to familiar grounds; he was the captain of Seaview, the crew were his responsibility and it was his intent to carry the guilt on his own shoulders. There was no blame to share; it was his alone. Crane pushed his body away from the navigation table and walked toward Nelson, stopping beside the older man.

Nelson turned his head, a quick glance before turning back to look out the port window. "I wouldn't have been able to do anything if I were there."

Crane had thought that . . . nothing he could do to save the young man's life but there had been something other than physical activity and he was sure Mason was grateful for his captain's presence. Instead of saying what was on his mind, Crane took a moment to think, to come up with something that wouldn't sound like an insult.

"I held his hand," said Crane. "I think it helped."

"Who was it this time?" said Nelson.

"This time?"

Nelson turned, an abrupt movement full of anger and said," This is no one's fault, Lee. It's not mine and it is certainly not yours. For the life of me, I can't understand why you blame yourself for what has happened."

"Because the crew are my responsibility, Admiral, and I've let them down."

"You've let no one down!" said Nelson, shifting his body away, facing the window once more. "Lee, it's your strength that has kept the crew going. You're the one who has walked the passageways for the last two days giving encouragement and support. You were with them when they died. What more can you do?"

Didn't want to remind Nelson that he hadn't been there when Cahill died. "I could have saved them."

"Damn it, Lee! Stop blaming yourself."

Pressed his hands into his pockets and lowered his head.

"We've done everything we can to stop this thing," said Nelson, turning to face Crane, his body twitching with emotion at the sight of Seaview's captain. "You've done everything you can to protect the crew. No one could ask more of you. Lee, the crew admire and respect you. They look up to you. The men on this boat know you would sacrifice your life to save them and you know they would do the same for you. All they expect of you is that you do your best and that's exactly what you've done. They don't blame you, Lee and neither do I."

"The admiral's right, skipper."

Crane snapped around, Nelson moving with him. Angry at the interruption, the invasion of their privacy, Crane was ready to discipline the man standing before him. Chief Sharkey. Words were already filtering through his brain, decided to take a different direction, now wasn't the time to berate the chief in front of the admiral; moral was already low, Crane didn't need . . . didn't want to make it worse.

"Chief, I thought you were taking care of Mason's body?"

"Yes, sir, I was but I had this strange feeling I was needed here."

Nelson frowned, gaze shifting from Sharkey to Crane. "Mason?"

"You're psychic now, chief?" said Crane, quickly regretting the words. Normally, he would handle a situation better than this, with more maturity, but this situation was different, emotions moving up and down at a nauseating pace.

"No, sir, nothing like that. It was just a hunch, sir."

"Lee?" said Nelson. "Young Mason is dead?"

Crane glanced to his left. "Yes, sir. He's only been with us a month. Just a kid really and now he's dead. Do you still think I shouldn't blame myself?"

"He was old enough to know the risk."

"He was naive. Starke filled his head with ideas and adventure and we encouraged it. We should have told him no," said Crane.

"We both agreed to Admiral Starke's recommendation but that doesn't place blame or guilt for Mason's death. This isn't your fault."

Hesitant in his intrusion, Sharkey said, "If I may, admiral, I would like to speak on behalf of the crew?"

"By all means . . . Francis," said Nelson, a satisfied smirk on his features as he moved away, leaving Crane to be alone in the spotlight.

Turning an angry gaze toward Nelson, observing the smile . . . Crane wanted nothing more than to allow his anger to erupt. He couldn't, suddenly deflated, his exhaustion draining him of everything: emotion, energy . . . his will to fight, to argue the absurdity of the moment. And when Nelson nodded toward Sharkey, indicating to Crane that he should be giving his full attention to the chief, Crane turned back to face the onslaught he knew was coming; suddenly aware this was something he needed to hear . . . something that he now welcomed.

"You may not believe the admiral, skipper, but I've talked to the men. They're scared. We all are but we don't blame you or the admiral. What's happened . . . well, it just doesn't make sense does it, sir."

Unsure if the chief was asking a question, Crane moved to respond, straightening his shoulders, a breath taken, coming to an abrupt stop when Nelson made a subtle sound, a grating cough. When he noticed the chief had stopped, a look of hesitation on his face, Crane nodded at him to continue.

"You have to know that, sir. I mean, you do know it, don't you, sir. That it doesn't make any sense. I mean . . . it's an insect. We don't even know how it came aboard only that it did and then it starts eating the crew . . . I'm sorry, sir, what I meant to say was-"

"I know what you meant to say, chief," said Crane even though he didn't think the chief was making much sense.

"No one could have expected it, sir. We've done everything we could to try to stop it but nothing worked. Not even the fresh meat we used from the food storage freezer. It just doesn't make sense and you can't make sense of something that doesn't make sense can you, sir."

"Chief Sharkey," said Nelson, "I'm sure there's a point in the conversation you need to get to before the captain runs out of patience."

"Oh. Yes, sir, there is," said Sharkey. "It's like the admiral said, sir. There's no blame here, only respect. We all feel the same. If there were something you could have done, sir, you would have done it. And, sir, just so you know, it's appreciated by everyone on board that you stayed with the men who . . . that you stayed with them until the end and no, sir, Cahill wasn't alone. Henderson was with him. All we're asking of you, sir, is that you don't blame yourself. That's all I have to say, sir. I'm sorry if I've insulted or embarrassed you."

"Insulted? No," said Nelson, smile still drifting on his features. "Embarrassed? Absolutely but I'm sure Captain Crane won't hold it against you."

He was embarrassed. His skin felt heated, flushed, hard to see with his olive skin tone. His heart was pounding with emotion, a painful lump caught in his throat. He didn't know how to respond. Didn't know what to say. He welcomed the chief's words, the thoughts expressed. The chief spoke for the entire crew, he always did. The chief was a man of his word and Crane knew Sharkey wouldn't lie just to make Seaview's captain happy.

Crane knew he had to be honest with his response. "Thank you, chief. I appreciate you coming forward and please let the men know I'll do my best to do what they're asking of me."

"The best is all you can do, sir," said Sharkey, nodding and smiling in gratitude before turning away . . .

It happed so fast . . . too fast, a life suddenly under threat, Crane not understanding how the insect could be hungry already, killing only minutes earlier. The chief was right, none of it made sense.

It dropped from above, Sharkey turning away as it fell, its intent disrupted, put off course. Preferred location no longer available, it landed low on the chief's left forearm, biting through the material of his shirt, a forced entrance into fresh new flesh, blood splattering the inside of Sharkey's shirt. An immediate reaction from the chief, a sound of surprise, his right hand grabbing at his arm, fingers tearing at the shirt sleeve. Blood began to soak through, spreading . . . too much blood.

Already too late . . .

Crane rushed forward, long legs moving quickly. With no plan in mind, he could only react. Grabbing the chief by the shoulders, he pushed Sharkey toward the navigation table, slamming the man's upper body down against it. Sharkey fought him all the way, Crane using what little strength he had left, motivation and adrenaline keeping him going.

He had to stop this . . . stop it from taking another life.

"Put out your arm!" said Crane, an idea forming as his gaze settled on the objects littering the table. Ignored by the chief – the man occupied with the deadly creature burrowing its way beneath skin – Crane took the chief's left wrist, pulling it outward and laying it flat against the table. "Keep your arm still, chief. That's an order."

Words finally getting through, the chief did everything he could to stay still, a difficult thing to accomplish. Teeth clenched, expression mutated, his skin pale, sweating; shock setting in, the chief managed to stay calm. Crane took a moment to look at Sharkey, to convey his thoughts . . . he was going to stop this.

He could see the trust in the chief's eyes . . . could only hope he didn't let the man down . . . didn't let the crew down. He couldn't rush, taking a few moments, gaze returning to Sharkey's forearm, searching for movement, an indication of the insect's location. He could see nothing but the blood surrounding the entry point. Fingers of his left hand gripped the shirt material, pulling it tight against flesh.

There. Movement, in the upper forearm, a lump making its way through flesh, slowed by the natural need to feed. He needed to act now, before it passed the elbow, too much flesh to hide within once it reached the upper arm.

Finally, Crane knew there was something he could do, something that would end their nightmare.

Focused on the task, everything else faded into the background; panicked voices, the control room crew as they rushed to Sharkey's aid, hindering more than helping, stumbling around the two men crushed against the navigation table.

Reached out over the chief's left shoulder with his right hand, picked up a pencil, its tip still sharp. Knew he had to get it right the first time, too much to lose. Raised his arm, holding the pencil as though it were a knife, thumb pressed down against the rubber tip at its end and plunged the pencil downward with a strength that surprised even Crane. Time seemed to slow, Crane fearful he would miss, or worse, hit the radial artery.

The tip of the pencil pierced human flesh, the chief crying out in surprise . . . penetrated the creature that had killed five of his men. Felt the pencil's tip break when it hit against the table beneath the chief's arm. Ignored the fact he'd used so much force . . . felt the creature as it struggled violently before becoming still.

Holding his breath, Crane kept his gaze focused, watching, waiting for it to escape, to move on, continue feeding as it made its way to the chief's brain.

Seconds passed, the creature remaining inactive, a good chance it was now dead, no longer a threat.

Pain filled his chest, lungs screaming, Crane took a breath, then another. Body tense, muscles aching, he lifted his gaze. The chief stared back at him, eyes filled with pain and relief. Crane could see the gratitude. Nodded then turned his head, finding the man closest to them.

"Get the doctor!"

.

.

.

His body still shook, limbs trembling, the feeling of 'what if' stuck in his head. Adrenaline long gone, the exhaustion a heavy weight, Crane sat slumped forward in the chair, shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, head resting in the palms of his hands. The smell of blood still in his sinuses, he felt sick, nausea turning his stomach. His thoughts racing, a jumble of confusion, he knew he should feel relief, the creature dead, no more lives at risk. He had saved the chief's life and killed the insect but the deaths of five crewmembers still haunted him.

All he could feel was guilt and regret. Knew the emotions would ease, it was only a matter of time. He would never get over it but believed he could learn to live with it. He still had the support of Nelson and the crew of Seaview. Still had their trust, their respect. He had come through in the end, too late but he had ended the chain of deaths, removing the violent link to each death.

It was over.

A hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze, his body jerking with surprise. Lifted his head away from his hands, took more effort than it should. Nelson stood over him, a soft smile on his features, a quiet confidence in his gaze.

Crane stood up, the movement too fast. Body swaying, he reached out and gripped the table in the observation nose, a steady support, his knuckles turning white. If he fell, collapsed, he would quickly find himself enclosed in a cocoon of blankets on a bunk in sickbay. Not what he wanted, not yet, couldn't sleep until he was sure the chief would be all right. He hadn't gone to sickbay. Didn't want to be in the way. If he were honest with himself, he would admit he was still scared, worried complications would set in and the chief would still die after everything he'd done to save the man's life . . . He was still afraid, unable to face anyone, not until he regained some control over his emotions.

"How is he?"

"Sleeping," said Nelson, "as you should be."

"He's going to be okay?"

"Thanks to you, yes," said Nelson. "You should go down and see him."

"I will," said Crane as he held up still trembling hands coated with blood. He didn't need to say anymore, his physical response enough, a delivery of words he couldn't voice aloud.

"Of course, Lee. Take the time you need. The chief will understand."

Crane didn't respond, guilt still his leading emotion. Could only stand there, his voice silent, his body now trembling with relief. The chief was all right.

"Sit down, Lee."

Crane did as told, knees buckling, body grateful for the physical relief. He was tired enough to think the table would make a comfortable bed. Closed his eyes, the lids heavy. Blinked them open, lifted his gaze. Didn't like the concern written across Nelson's features.

"I'll be fine, admiral. I'm just tired and relieved it's over."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Nelson said, "Still feel guilty?"

"Of course I do. How can I not feel guilty?"

"I thought the chief had gotten through to you."

"He did," said Crane, turning in his chair to place his forearms on the table and look out through the viewport windows. "It's not something I can just switch off, admiral. I thought I couldn't do this anymore."

Nelson frowned. "Do what, Lee?"

"Captain the Seaview. I didn't want to be responsible for someone else's life. The way they all died . . . and there was nothing I could do to save them. I lost confidence in my ability to command a crew."

"And now?"

Turned his head to look up at his friend. "I'm still not sure if I can do it but I do know that at the moment, I'm not willing to throw it all away. The crew aren't ready to mutiny and you're not about to fire me . . . are you, admiral?"

"Of course not, Lee," said Nelson. "Lee, I'm not sure another man would have done what you did. To react so quickly. You saved Sharkey's life. Remember that."

"I'm sure he'll keep reminding me, admiral," said Crane, allowing a smile to form. He was willing to give it another chance. To take a risk. The crew of Seaview hadn't given up. He would use their strength as a crutch to help him through to the other side, to heal, to return to the man he had been before this mission.

"Welcome back, captain," said Nelson, hand gently slapping against Crane's left shoulder. "Welcome back."


End file.
